Take Off These Gloves
by therosenpants
Summary: At a performance of Swan Lake, Countess Christine de Chagny encounters her rival on stage. This won't stand... And Erik will find himself putty in her hands once more. Fic based on the David Staller adaptation of Phantom. Tumblr prompt fill.


_AN: I know this is bizarre, but... This IS a David Staller fanfic. Your eyes are not deceiving you in the summary. It was written for a prompt "a kiss out of jealousy" and I wanted to skew it so_ Christine _was the jealous one and wheel-of-fish said I should write Staller fanfic as a joke and I took it too far. Always._

 _And I actually like it so... new otp?_

 _Unedited. Enjoy!_

* * *

 _No._

 _This_ cannot _be!_

That girl parted the air with her pointe shoes and dived into her final glory — the spread of a dark swan's wings. Her chin lifted high, pointed into the heavens… or to a box containing her sought-after prize.

 _His_ approval. His pearly smile as it glinted in the darkness, a pale blur clapping faster and harder than anyone else in the hall. She _knew_ it was him, for he had endless audacity. And those white gloves… ones that had hypnotized her and taken her down into an abyss… ones that had guided her senses and her voice into endless refrains… ones that had left their burning mark upon her skin like a brand only six months ago.

And he sat alone in his box. No repercussions, no consequences for taking her against her will! Instead he was rewarded with a new starlet, a diva with quick feet and dark, luminous hair. And Christine, soprano cum Countess, twisted her silk fan round and round in her hands, until she ripped clear through one of the seams.

And her husband beside her, none the wiser. He leaned against the balustrade, drinking in the sight of La So-and-So's legs and the last of the wine, too. She looked from his mop of tawny hair to _his_ box to the stage, where the scene was changing and her _rival_ — oh! how she hated herself for thinking so! — exited amidst the roar of the crowd, to become the white swan again. _Pah,_ she thought. _White swan my foot!_

Countess Christine, blonde locks piled high and secured by a coral comb, lifted herself with the adrenaline of a tigress, though with the tweet of a dove she demurred, "I must powder my nose, darling. I'll return in a moment." She kissed the top of his head, though with her eyes she sought a mask in the darkness in the box across the way. She did not know if _he_ was watching with his little dancer off-stage, but it didn't matter.

Raoul huffed an innocent sound of acquiescence and drifted back into his stupor. Oh, he was a dear, misguided boy. Foolish enough to believe she was only his, and brave enough to be confident in her choice every day.

But she had to make a choice now, and it took her out the door. Her petticoats made the most righteous sound as it clicked behind them.

As she spun through the hall, Christine breathed in deeply, forcing her tears to dry through sheer willpower. How could he _do_ this to her? After everything that had passed between them? Only _she_ had understood the music! Or so she thought… With them it had been transcendent…

 _Perfect._

In an imperfect world.

And she stood in front of the door — Box Five, to be exact — with all her prior doubts about the choice she'd made coming back to bite her. Was she right to have chosen Raoul when _he_ had so quickly formed a life with another? Or could the same be said of her, when he had offered her _everything_ her soul desired and she'd traded it for security and innocence? She'd been frightened and unsure then. But now that she knew how easily _both_ their hearts could be swayed…

There was nothing left but to enter and face those white gloves once more.

Christine pulled the door open, slipping quietly inside and shutting them off from the world. She steeled herself across from him, finding him standing with his back turned to the stage, half in shadow and in light. The perfect balance of a perfectly imbalanced man.

" _Who will sing your music now?_ " she squawked. Her voice was weary, out of practice and hoarse from a recent illness. But though she sounded weak, her convictions were strong. It was a mocking tone she tried to convey, though insincerity was new to her.

He stepped forward, that brilliant white hand tucking a golden lock behind his ear. It slipped back to clasp his other hand and suddenly she was blinded by the light gleaming off his metal mask.

"Christi—"

But it was too late to plea. She was already yanking her coral comb from her coiffeur to set it free, shaking her own golden hair ( _a perfect match, were they not?_ ) into a mess of euphoria, and was crashing her lips to his own before he'd finished uttering her name.

He bent into her, hands splayed out by her sides in a mechanical stiffness, but she was fluid for him. She wrapped her arms languidly around his neck and thrust her fingers into his hair. He didn't even notice when she slipped off his mask, letting it fall to the ground so that her fingers could roam his crevices and memorize his his features. Ones she'd long been dreaming about, but hadn't had the courage to admit.

It was only when he finally relaxed against her, wrapping his arms around the small of her back, that she unlocked their lips of magic. She held his shaking hands… her pale skin against white fabric.

"Certainly not _that_ dancing duck, I believe?"

His imperfect face was gone — in its place, a cheshire grin and thrilled, searching eyes. But he had no words.

Suddenly she had the man who'd built palaces and bragged endlessly about them in the palm of her little hands.

"Now take off these gloves."

* * *

 _*insert wheel-of-fish's gif of Staller sniffing his gloves here*_

 _Please read and review this unabashedly serious fic for our unabashedly ridiculous boi._

 _-Rose_


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